Tintin and the Picaros
by Bianca Castafarina
Summary: WARNING: Rape! Tintin gets drunk and is taken advantage of. Memories of a devastating incident retold from four different viewpoints.
1. Alcazar's Version

**GENERAL ALCAZAR'S VERSION**

I knew my guerrilla warriors were a bunch of incompetent drunks, but I would never have guessed they would go this far. I should have anticipated it! It takes just a single one, just one scoundrel to make an entire group delve into acts of depravity. Holy Mother of God! Just one man with a sick idea who takes responsibility, and everyone plays along happily. Especially if there is alcohol involved.

I don't remember when I noticed Tintin was gone. Several hours had passed; it was already night when I sat around the fire with Captain Haddock and Professor Calculus, and wondered aloud where Tintin was.

"He's in the community hut", Haddock said. "The famous reporter telling stories." He laughed. "I guess they all want his autograph!"

"In there?" I asked him, pointing to the community hut. Sure, there was some laughter and talk to be heard, but we were too far away to make out any words.

I don't know why I suddenly felt the urge to go in there and check, just to make sure Tintin was safe. I knew him well, he was a handful and could easily fight a guy twice his size. Call it a premonition, a vision, but knowing he was in there with – how many? A dozen guerrillas? - did not feel _right_ at all. Absolutely not right.

"Are you well?" Calculus asked me. "You seem so preoccupied, General."

"Let's go", I said to Captain Haddock. "We'll go in and check."

We went to the community hut, and being the commander I was I did not knock on the door, of course, but swiftly kicked it open.

Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw.


	2. Juan's Version

**JUAN'S VERSION**

I have no choice, do I? Okay, will tell you how it happened. It was Esteban's idea, as always... What I mean? Well, Esteban is the only one who has such loathsome, disgusting ideas! Everyone is just playing along. They always do. Those guys are here to follow orders, not to question them, and if General Alcazar isn't there, they will listen to Esteban, the depraved crook. And they will do so gladly because in the past, every single of his crackpot ideas has been a joy for them.

So we had that young Belgian reporter invited into our community hut. There were about twenty Picaros around, not the entire army, of course, just a selection of Esteban's buddies. He wanted to hear all about Tintin's adventures, he had said, and Tintin was too polite to refuse the invitation. Maybe he was flattered, too, that they seemed so impressed by him and wanted to know all about his adventures. I must admit even though I'm no pervert I found him to be quite pretty, seen from this close proximity. Almost too pretty for a man. And Esteban seemed quite fond of him, or at least pretended to. Tintin appeared perfectly comfortable among us even though he was alone - his companions, the deaf professor and the cursing sailor were staying somewhere else with General Alcazar.

If I had known it all along? No, I swear! I had absolutely no idea. Esteban has a reputation for nasty exploits but he's never done that sort of thing before. No, I'm absolutely sure! … At least not while he was part of the Picaros. Never heard that sort of thing about him. So I was just as unsuspecting as that young Belgian journalist when he was telling us about his experiences.

We were sitting on the ground of the big hut, one of the coolest spots available in the sultry summer heat of the jungle, and a bottle of whisky was handed around in our cozy circle. It was getting dark and one of the men lit a lamp. Tintin was telling us the story how he had saved his Chinese friend in Tibet, and Esteban offered him the whisky bottle over and over again. Tintin politely refused only once, and then took his turn drinking as well. The others were all a bit drunk already, boldly interrupting him with questions and laughter.

At this stage I was feeling uneasy. I was not as drunk as the other men, so I remember quite well how they slowly became more daring.

Soon Esteban was holding an intoxicated Tintin in his arms, grinning triumphantly and if he was drunk it was barely noticeable. He can hold his liquor much better than most of us. Tintin did not resist at all but only giggled and mumbled strange sentences in French. His movements were lazy and clumsy, his eyes glassy. But on the whole his face looked even prettier than before, with those flushed, pink cheeks and the small, soft lips half-parted in a smile.

Yes, at this point I was quite sure what they wanted, and believe me, I wanted to get away but what could I have done? They'd have killed me if they thought I'd have gone off whistle-blowing! So I stayed and observed, growing increasingly anxious.

This was a bunch of guerrilla warriors with plenty of readiness for combat and pent-up aggression and energy. Frustration was high. There are no women in this camp – except for Peggy and she's well guarded – so you can guess that those men would not let an opportunity pass.

"Let me", the guy next to Esteban said with a slurred voice – I believe it was Manuel – and he clumsily reached out to touch Tintin, but Esteban slapped his hand. "Wait", he said, sounding quite sober. "I'm first." Sitting on the ground and holding that drunk young European in his arms like one would carry a bride, Esteban brought his face to Tintin's cheek, his neck, inhaling and sniffing. For a moment he did not even notice another guy touching Tintin's thigh. They all now knew what was to come, and they were disturbingly eager.

Esteban made an appreciative "hmmmm" sound. "Smells good and sweet. Like a girl." He grinned at us, and I saw the hunger in the faces of the others.

Tintin, on the other hand, seemed oblivious at what was going on. He merely blinked, not making a single attempt to wriggle himself out of Esteban's arms. The whisky was doing its work.

Esteban licked Tintin's neck, then bit him. Not too much from what I could judge, and Tintin flinched and made a surprised sound but did not resist further. "Yeah", Esteban said, and I heard it echoed from at least two other husky voices. They were all staring at Tintin, and I was the only one risking a glance at them, noticing they all had telltale bulges in the fronts of their cargo pants. Except Tintin who was probably too drunk to realize what kind of situation he was in. Sure, he turned away his head when Esteban stuck two fingers into his mouth, but Esteban instantly held Tintin's head firmly in place, forcing him to passively suck his fingers. "Help me with those jeans", he then ordered another man named Pablo, and while Pablo was busy removing Tintin's pants Esteban slid a hand up Tintin's shirt.

"Strip him, strip him", someone shouted, I don't remember who. I only remembered I should do something but I felt like I was frozen, watching the scene unfold in front of me.

Esteban gently put Tintin down onto the ground, removing his jeans along with his socks, and pulled up Tintin's blue sweater and shirt, revealing the smoothest, ivory-white skin I'd ever seen on a man. They all found it fascinating, utterly exciting, and could not resist touching and groping him. Most of all, of course, Esteban. He fondled Tintin's nipples, so very small and light pink ones as I've never seen before, and his privates, rubbing him through his undershorts. "Yeah, you like that, don't you", he muttered, and some more words I didn't understand, because everyone else was getting loud. "Strip him, strip him", they chanted, until Esteban bellowed "Shut up!"

Sudden silence followed, and he told us we needed to be quiet if we didn't want to be discovered. That made sense to everyone, and they confined their sounds to slurred, lecherous comments and appreciative grunts as Esteban undressed Tintin further, pulling away his undershorts and completely exposing him.

Tintin was so incredibly drunk that he had not resisted until this point. Now he opened his half-closed eyes a bit further, turning his head to the side – lifting it seemed to much of an effort now – and looking at us with an unfocused gaze. "Mmh", he said, sighing, and everyone took it as a sign of desire.

Esteban was atop Tintin, now pressing his own body onto the boy's, purring words like, "D'you like it rough? Or gentle? Tell me, sweetheart!" He took Tintin's chin into one hand, trying to turn the lad's face toward his, but Tintin would not cooperate, refusing to look at him. At last Esteban lost patience, and with a grunt, pushed Tintin's thighs apart with his own legs.

"Yeah", Pablo was encouraging him, and so was everyone else. More whisky was drunk. More dirty words and whistling thrown around, still quiet enough as not to arouse suspicion from outside. Tension was high and the humid air in the hut was heavy with fumes and reeking of sweat from two dozen excited males, making my head feel light.

Fumbling with the zipper of his pants Esteban hissed a curse. He was so agitated, aroused and impatient that he did not notice Tintin attempting to actively resist. The boy opened his eyes, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows, but he was too drunk – his arms gave way, and he sank back down onto the ground. "Mh", he said, followed by another unintelligible word in French.

"He's awake", Manuel said.

"I know!" Esteban snapped at him. Finally he had managed to free his erection, and I swallowed hard when I saw it – raging hard and ready, aimed at Tintin like a dangerous weapon. I'm not sure whether Tintin saw it, too, but he was moving around more. It looked like he was trying to wriggle away from under Esteban.  
"Juan", Esteban shouted at me. "Hold him down!"  
I was shaking anxiously, still not believing this could really happen, so I did not think, but simply obeyed. I knelt next to the pretty redhead and held his arms down on the ground above his head, marveling at how small those wrists were. One of my hands was enough to enclose them both.

Tintin protested weakly when Esteban pushed his alabaster thighs further apart with rough, sweaty hands.

My heart was beating like mad, and I was going dizzy. I knew it must not happen but there I was, letting it happen, and to my disgust I was getting hard myself. Everyone had gotten closer to Tintin to get a better view.

Esteban groaned with frustration as he tried to enter the boy. He'd lifted up Tintin's bottom easily but apparently the actual act was harder than it seemed. I saw Esteban's face redden with effort, and he muttered curses as he tried with one hand to keep the boy in place, while he used his other hand to push the battering ram against the door.

"You're too big for him", Ramon shouted. Several men laughed.

"Let me go first!"

"Shut up", Esteban barked. With one heavy grunt he pushed forward, and when his face changed I knew he'd done it. Mouth open but speechless for a moment, he remained there inside Tintin, breathing heavily. Then he looked at us with a wide grin. Someone cheered.

Tintin's expression was one of pain, mouth open as if to scream, but no sound emerged save for a ragged gasp.

"Yeah", someone said. Heavy breathing all around me. The air was thick with almost tangible tension and arousal.

"Yeah", Esteban echoed, starting to move. He was half lying down between Tintin's spread thighs, propped up on his elbows, and it was repulsive but undeniably captivating to watch how he – well, there's only one word to describe it – fucked the boy. I am utterly ashamed of myself for visually devouring every second of this awful act. He was all hunger and raw strength, ravishing that sweet young thing as if he'd been waiting to do this for years. His thighs and bottom, still half covered by the cargo pants, rocked back and forth, delivering hard thrusts, taking Tintin for all of us to see. He was _performing_.

His hair was sticking to his face, wet with perspiration, and he smiled at me as he kept going; a crooked, unsightly grin. I was still holding Tintin's wrists down but the boy was no longer resisting; he merely whimpered, head turned to the side so he wouldn't face his rapist.

The others were cheering Esteban on, encouraging him to hurry, and they hardly managed to keep their voices down. They wanted their turn and they wanted it now.

Esteban arrived with a low grunt, and stayed there atop Tintin for a moment, gently brushing the boy's ginger hair, and gazing at him with a smug, satisfied expression.

Manuel was eager to go next, and Esteban generously let him take his turn. "Is he still awake?" Manuel asked, fumbling with the zipper of his pants. Tintin was no longer moving nor weakly resisting. I let go off Tintin's wrists, shrugging. "Seems to have passed out."

Indeed the alcohol had done its work – Tintin had drunk much more than he could handle. "Help me turn him 'round", Manuel said, and we rolled Tintin onto his stomach. His body was limp and surprisingly light. I don't know where I took the courage to do this. Such an awful, dishonorable crime, and I was in the very midst of it. Too late to flee.

Tintin's back was strong yet narrow and slim for a male. I admired his smooth, round buttocks, their harmonious beauty temporarily marred when Manuel squeezed them; when his rough, thick fingers dug between them, pushing inside. "All wet and slippery", he announced with a hoarse laugh, winking at Esteban. "Well done!"  
He was as eager as everyone else, hastily replacing his fingers with his cock. "Oh yeah", he groaned, taking Tintin with irregular, shallow thrusts.

I could not help but watch, and carefully observed the other men, wondering if I was the only one whose conscience was protesting against this sort of debauchery. But no one seemed bothered. Ramon and another one whose name I don't remember even could not, or did not want to wait, and were kneeling next to Tintin, stroking themselves.

Thin, milky ribbons of cum hit Tintin's torso and behind, some of it pooling in the small of his back, and some running down his sides. Manuel did either not notice or not care; he continued thrusting violently, rutting like a dog in heat, pressured to perform by the increasingly impatient and heated-up men around him. Just when he'd finished, a chubby young guy nicknamed Niño took his place, rudely pushing away his predecessor to have his way with Tintin.

The next guerrilla replaced him very shortly afterward, an intimidatingly large and bulky bear of a man called Francisco, and he effortlessly manhandled still passed-out Tintin onto his back, telling me to support his shoulders and torso on my lap so he would have easier access. I complied, hoping no one would notice my queasiness or they might push me to be next.  
I was holding Tintin half sitting, half lying on my lap and facing Francisco as he clumsily made several attempts of forced entry inside him. I was so close to them both that the combination made me dizzy. Tintin's warm, smooth skin and flushed face with the closed eyes and half parted lips; and the strong, radiant animal heat radiating from Francisco as he fucked him, causing thick drops of cum to squirt out.

I do not remember who had him afterward, only my perverted fascination with the sticky mess they made. It was as though everyone – perhaps unconsciously?- tried to scoop out the previous guy's semen to make sure Tintin was marked only with their own.

"C'mon, Juan", Esteban shouted at me. "You haven't had your turn yet!"

"Not me", I protested, making my voice sound more slurred than it truly was. "I drank... too much! Can't do-"

In that very moment the flimsy wooden door flew open, causing a few dry twigs to fall from the ceiling; and there stood General Alcazar, machine gun in hand; followed by Captain Haddock. Both froze at the open door.

I stared. Some of the men stared. But others hadn't even noticed them yet.

Tintin was still unconscious, and Esteban was holding Tintin's thighs open while another guy, already quite drunk, was positioning himself between them, clumsily shifting around and hiccuping.

"Holy Mother of God", Alcazar bellowed and fired a gunshot into the air. This got everyone's attention. Heads turned. Everyone had fallen silent, collectively holding their breath.

Esteban must have drunk a lot more whisky in the meantime for he let out a giggle. "Look, look", he said with a wide grin, lifting one of Tintin's legs to expose him even further. "General, d'you... hic!... want to try? Nice boy pussy." Another laugh. "Tight and wet."

_Oh no_, a voice in my head groaned, _dear God, no. _

Captain Haddock's face contorted with rage. With a wild scream he charged at Esteban who was still holding Tintin, and punched him. "Thundering typhoons", he shouted, "I will kill you, you, you-"

"STOP IT, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!" Alcazar fired more shots into the air, and that was the moment I knew I had to disappear. I'm not so sure what happened then. I instinctively tried to get away, as others did. And, well, here I am now, one day later.

Are you done now? I've told you all I've seen and done. I swear I did not do what the others did! I haven't had Tintin – such a thing I just can't do, drunk or not! I swear it on the honor of my mother and father. I just had to play along, for if I had tried to intervene they'd have made me fuck him, or worse.

No, really. That's all. Ask the others if you want to know more though I doubt there's anything left to tell.

(to be continued)


	3. Tintin's Version

Tintin's Version

No, I can't tell you what happened. How do you expect me to just sit there and look into your eyes while calmy retelling the entire incident step by step? No, I am not doing that. Not only because I don't want, but because I simply can't. That's why I'm now writing down all I know and remember; completely in private and on my own, and then I'll decide whether to burn these sheets or to let Captain Haddock and General Alcazar read them.

They're asked me several times. And even when they don't, I see that doubting, questioning look in their faces. I can't blame them. I don't know much more about the incident than they do.

I hope that writing it down will help me to see it all from a distance because that's what writing usually does for me. I've covered so many horrible stories in my reporting career that writing always tends to create a professional distance for me.

My memory of that night is blurry at best. But I will try and recall what might have led to it. They – that is, a group of fifteen or twenty Picaros centered around Esteban Ferrón, invited me to their community hut, eager to hear stories about my adventures. I can imagine how boring it is bound to be here, in this deep, godforsaken jungle without television or any towns nearby, so I readily accepted.

They wanted to hear all about my experiences in Tibet and the journey to the moon, and were very generous with the drinks. I don't remember how much whisky I'd had but it must have been a lot, for from a certain point my memory is almost blank. I still remember Esteban's arms holding me, his hands sliding under my shirt. Too drunk to be any more than mildly alarmed, I hardly resisted.

The rest is a collection of single, fragmentary shadows of memories too dreamlike to be real, too realistic to be dreams. Or I should rather say, 'nightmares'.

I don't remember anything clearly. Truth to be told, I wish I could. If only I knew what exactly happened to me and in what order, I'd at least have some illusion of control, something to hold on to, someone to blame. Right now, my conscience is blaming me. That way I'm doubting myself, doubting my own sanity, trying to find fault with myself. Have I perhaps done something to encourage or incite them? I would never have wanted such a thing, but what if the alcohol had temporarily changed that? What if the whisky made me do it? No one knows better than I that drinking makes people lose control and inhibitions, and this is probably the worst thing of all: not knowing myself anymore.

Of course, rationally I know it's not my fault, and how dangerous it is to blame oneself. Captain Haddock knows this, too. But I can't help it. I'm blaming myself, and it has become an obsession over the past two days. If only I had drunk less! If only I had strictly refused to drink any whisky at all! If only, if only!

„Stop it", Haddock keeps saying, „you're too hard on yourself. After what you've gone through! Stop blaming yourself! Those pigs planned the entire thing in advance – they were _intending_ to rape you, Tintin, don't you get it?"

Sure, I get it. But even that does not lift any guilt from me. It only makes me think I shouldn't have drunk. Same result. Then I could have at least defended myself properly! I could have beaten the living wits out of them, shown them what I'm made of.

I've had no such chance. I was completely defenseless and they took full advantage. Because I was drunk. Because I was _stupid._

Now as I write I indeed remember more.

I remember being naked, at least from the waist down. There were voices, several deep voices in Spanish, and the smell of sweat and whisky in hot, stifling air. The raw strength of coarse hands all around me, holding me, entrapping me. It all seems far away and unreal like a fleeting vision, yet it possesses my mind because it gives no clear answers.

The physical pain, on the other hand, is real and present. It burns when I sit down, even when I walk; and it wouldn't have taken Haddock's awkward, mumbled words to tell me what had happened when I woke up the next morning. I would have realized it very soon from the pain alone. Yet I demanded to hear it from him.

I awoke in my own bed, and Captain Haddock was sitting next to it, his face an expression of worry and concern. He had brought coffee and food, and stayed silent. My head felt as though heavy brazen bells tolled inside it, and there was a peculiar fuzzy sensation on my tongue. After a moment I could not ignore the other sensation anymore. The searing pain, the itching. When I tried to sit up on the bed my stomach churned and nausea threatened to overtake me; derived possibly from both the hangover and the terrible realization that there was only one way this could have happened.

„Captain, what... what...?"

He was avoiding my gaze, and for a terrifying second I thought it was him, my closest friend and longtime companion who was somehow responsible; and quickly shoved that impossible, ridiculous idea aside. There was absolutely_ no_ way he would do such a thing. But then who? I don't remember having had any such intentions at all. I hadn't consented to anything, had I?

„Captain, look at me!" It was now clear – someone had taken advantage of me, _raped_ me, and I had no recollection.

My breathing became faster, and for a moment my chest felt constricted. „Damn", I uttered, heaving ragged breaths. My eyes filled with tears. „Captain", I cried out, „I can't breathe, I – I - „

„My God, Tintin!" He sat on my bed immediately, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. „Calm down! Relax. Calm down."

„I can't... breathe-!"

„Hush! Shht! Calm down!"

I clutched his blue sweater desperately, pressing my face against his chest. He embraced me carefully, muttering the same words over and over again. „Relax, my boy. _Mon petit_. Breathe!"

I think it took several minutes until my breathing was back to its normal, steady rhythm. I looked up at him. „What happened? Tell me, Captain!"

He avoided my gaze.

„God damn it!" Suddenly I was furious. „I _know_ what happened! The last thing I need now is you being awkward and secretive about it! Tell me who! Who did this to me!"

He glanced at me briefly, then shook his head. „You should get some rest, lad... you're still hung over... and I don't think you want to know."

„Are you patronizing me?" I shouted in a tone that in retrospect surprises me. „WHO?"

Could he not see that I needed answers, that I needed to make some sense of it, that I needed his cooperation now more than ever? If he wouldn't give me answers now then who would? Tears obscured my vision, and if he hadn't talked now I'd have cried with anger and frustration.

„A bunch of Picaros", he said.

I exhaled, slowly pulling back from his embrace. The memories were returning; shady and blurry, but they were there. „Who was it?"

He shrugged. „I don't know their names, lad."

_Their_ names. „How many?"

A heavy sigh. „Tintin, are you sure... it doesn't matter-"

„HOW MANY?"

Finally he looked at me, surprised at my untypical outburst, and I was glad to see into his eyes. I was a little afraid to look, for fear that I might find blame there, but even more badly I wanted to see his usual gaze – the kind, comradely look he always had for me.

His voice was strangely low when he replied at last. „We're not sure. Maybe ten or so." The last half of the sentence ended in a whisper.

Processing what he had said I noticed my breathing again becoming laborious and fast.

Suddenly Haddock gripped my shoulders. „Tintin, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have noticed... should've been there sooner. I was too late, much too late." His hands were tense, his eyes glistening with tears.

He was not judging me. Right now that was important, and it still is.

General Alcazar, on the other hand, has been strangely distant and cold ever since. I've tried to ask him what he'd seen and done, and who was involved in the incident, but he doesn't speak up. All he tells me is that those who did it will be punished. „It's a promise. They'll be whipped. You'll see."

For a moment I had my doubts about him. What if he was involved, too? But Haddock has assured me otherwise. It is a terrible, agonizing thought – what if, _what if_ those Picaros were not the only ones to abuse me? This is the worst: not knowing.

I would not even have guessed that men would actually want to have sex with me, and if a dozen Picaros can lose all control, anything is possible.

Anything could have happened, and still happen, and it terrifies me to no end.

Dear Lord, it is too much. I can't spend a minute longer in this goddamn insane jungle asylum. My chest is starting to feel constricted again. I can't breathe!

I want to get out of here!

I'm wondering - do I want to face those men again? Do I really want to see them who did it? Do I have to watch their punishment?

It does not matter. People possess no shame – they will talk. Everyone will know about the incident. They will never again see me in the same way as before, perhaps not even Captain Haddock.


	4. Haddock's Version

CAPTAIN HADDOCK'S VERSION

Blistering barnacles!

I could have killed him; killed the despicable monster whom I saw lay hands on Tintin, but then I realized I would have had to kill the entire bunch of them.

Rage had blinded me to the point that I might actually have tried to go that far if Alcazar hadn't held me back. Then, after I had regained some composure, I watched him hit the guy who held Tintin in his arms, and yell at him in Spanish. „Help me, Captain", he then shouted at me, pointing at the limp, apparently unconscious form of my precious, red-haired boy reporter. „Pick him up. I'll take care of the rest."

He proceeded to yell at the silent, passive group of several more or less drunk Picaros; and I hurried to pick up Tintin, as quickly as possible since I couldn't bear to look at the bastard who handed him to me. Tintin was half naked, his shirt open, showing his bare stomach that was wet and sticky with ejaculate. I could feel it on his thighs, too, when I carried him in my arms, and it made my stomach turn with anger and revulsion. At any other point I might have been only mildly embarassed yet fascinated to see this beautiful young man so exposed as I've never seen him before, but right now I felt only rage; white-hot glowing rage.

They had defiled Tintin, and I wanted them to suffer.

_Will he ever recover from this?_ I wondered as I put him down onto his bed as gently as possible. My face hovered close above his for a moment. He looked peaceful, breathing quietly, sleeping as though nothing had happened at all.

Everything would have seemed normal if he hadn't had their stench on him, from their hands and bodies that had been all over him; the smell of their sweat and seed on his skin.

I was thoroughly disgusted yet compelled to know. Very carefully, afraid he could wake up although that was unlikely, I nudged his thighs apart, feeling my anger rise up again when I saw the sticky mess. I retrieved a towel from our personal items, and struggling to suppress nausea, wiped away what I could find. And there-

…_there!_

Blood. Drops of blood had created smears on the insides of his thighs. My emotions, strong and raw, threatened to boil over. I stumbled back, breathing hard, fists clenched, and only one thought was looping through my head in endless repetition – they hurt Tintin, _they hurt Tintin.._.!

With trembling hands I laid a blanket over him, and paced around the room in search of whisky. What if he needed a doctor? There was no doctor in this goddamned godforsaken jungle! When I had found the whisky bottle and had a few generous swigs I went to look for General Alcazar.

And we discussed, if one can call it that. He insisted that if Tintin really needed medical attention, he would take care of it. I had my doubts but he claimed to have successfully treated worse injuries before and had already seen everything in his years as a guerrilla warrior. „There ain't nothing that whisky and Arumbaya salve can't fix, _amigo._"

He was as disturbed as I was, and we had to contain our senseless anger that just wanted to get out, even though it was not meant to be directed at each other.

Alcazar promised me that those who'd raped Tintin would be punished. „There will be a public whipping for all to see, and I'll make them confess."

„How can you be sure the guilty ones will step forward?"

„When they're sober they will."

„Will they even apologize?"

„Of course", he said. He was agitated, moving restlessly around the hut. Peggy was still in bed, groaning with frustration. „Zarzar, either you come back here, or take your fuckin' business elsewhere!"

„Just a second,_ palomita mia_", he shouted, then looked back at me. „I promise, _amigo_. No revolution until the pigs have confessed and are punished. Believe me, I want to get this over with just like you do."

„And I guess everyone will know what happened."

Alcazar exhaled with a sigh, and lit one of his preferred Havana cigars. „They'll all know anyway. Gossip is contagious here." He shrugged. „No way it will stay a secret. I'm sure some of those bastards are already bragging about what they did."

I knew he was right, and stayed silent, fingers curled into fists. _They hurt Tintin. They hurt Tintin..._

Then he asked me something entirely unexpected.

„Captain, are you sure Tintin did _not_ consent?"

I stared at him. My fingernails dug deeper into my palms as I felt my entire body tense. „What... what in the name of one billion blue blistering barnacles-"

He blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air. „Well, if he perhaps flirted with them – or willingly slept with just _one_ of them – that'd change the situation a bit, I'd think. … Now, don't give me that look, _¡__Madre de Dios!_ I don't mean to imply he's some sort of- well, I simply meant alcohol can change people, you know that!"

„He was unconscious!" I shouted. Taking a few heavy breaths I reminded myself that I could not afford to argue with that army leader whose shelter we depended on to survive here. I lowered my voice, calming down. „He wouldn't do this, General. Even if it was only one person, he wouldn't let a man touch him, much less a stranger."

„What?" Alcazar seemed surprised. „Not even you?"

For a moment I was confused, then I snapped, „Thundering typhoons, why does everyone always assume I'm Tintin's boyfriend? I'm quite sure the lad's not into men at all, not even into women! Blistering barnacles! There is nothing between us!"

_...although sometimes I wish there was._

General Alcazar nodded. „Hmm." He appeared deep in thought. „We'll wait until he's awake. Then he'll be able to tell us his version."

I excused myself, and went back to our hut. His words echoed in my head, keeping my fury simmering. How dare he speculate about Tintin? How could he question Tintin's integrity and call him a whore?

Back at Tintin's bedside I saw he was still asleep, and tucked the corners of the blanket around the straw-filled makeshift mattress. His ginger quiff was tousled, the bite mark on his neck still red.

In his sleep he looked like an angel.


	5. Consequences

CONSEQUENCES

The public whipping took place two days later. The day before, General Alcazar had personally interrogated every single of those men whom he and Haddock had caught in the act with Tintin. Their confessions were varied. Some acted defiant, insisting that either they had done absolutely nothing, or that Tintin had encouraged them, even begged for it. Others were all tears and regrets, making a sad figure of themselves, but even those would not admit anything more than merely having fondled the young man. And a few claimed to remember nothing. It was utterly frustrating, causing doubts to appear in Alcazar's mind.

He remembered the very first time he'd met the lad; many years ago when he had still been dictator of San Theodoros. Tintin had been drunk and extremely merry, singing „Long live General Alcazar", and had hugged him, clinging to the General's back-then-corpulent figure like a foolishly giggling limpet until Alcazar managed to peel him off and send him away to his bedroom. Even at that time it had already occured to him that a pretty boy in this state would be easy to take advantage of; and he had made sure Tintin was well guarded.

The punishment was about to begin. Dozens of Picaros and Arumbayas stood in the great square with the fireplace around which the huts were arranged. An upturned whisky box stood on the ground.

Captain Haddock stood among the Arumbayas between Calculus and Tintin, secretly observing the latter.

„It seems we will get to see a traditional folk dance", Calculus said. „I'm a great admirer of the arts of primitive cultures. You too, Captain?" He beamed.

Haddock growled something that Calculus, as usual, did not understand, then he carefully took Tintin's hand into his.

Tintin looked at him.

„You okay, lad?"

Tintin sighed. Quietly so only Haddock could hear it he said, „You know, I've thought about it, and maybe it's not as personal as it seems."

Haddock gave him a confused look.

„I think... they didn't want to hurt _me_. They _did_ want to hurt, yes. But I was just there. It was convenient."

„Hm." Haddock nodded, still not sure what it meant. „Maybe you're right."

Tintin grasped the Captain's hand firmer. It was warm and comforting.

Of course the incident had felt incredibly personal. He could not imagine anything more personal than such a deeply intimate, invasive assault. But how personal was it in reality? With great certainty, so his rational mind said, they would have violated anyone who'd been there in his place, as long he or she was defenseless enough.

But his rational mind did not have much of a say right now, so he felt shivers run down his spine when he saw ten Picaros line up in the square, commanded to stand at attention by General Alcazar.

Again Tintin was heaving breaths, his rib cage feeling constricted. He held onto Haddock's hand for dear life. It was not right, his body acting of its own accord. The incident had taken control from him, and even now still denied him control. It was unfair, absolutely unfair...

He felt Haddock's arms around him, and tried to focus on the Captain's warm, solid, secure presence although his body protested even against this.

.

.

.

General Alcazar did not like to remember what happened afterward. Never before did he have to punish ten of his men at the same time. He had ordered Esteban to whip the others, as a sort of especially humiliating bonus for this guy, then Alcazar had taken care of Esteban himself. Twenty lashes, more than the others, simply because Esteban had been the one they'd found holding Tintin, and because he had shown no regret.

Esteban's back was raw and bleeding, and he had almost passed out. The others had shown various reactions. Some had made no sound at all while they were being whipped, only their faces and white knuckles betraying the pain they were subjected to. Others had cried like children, sobbing and bawling. Others had merely screamed every time the leather whiplash had hit their skin.

General Alcazar prayed that this incident would not affect his plans of revolution. Perhaps there was truly no hope. What could he expect to accomplish with an army of boozers _and_ rapists?

.

.

.

Captain Haddock had made up his mind. He'd be there for Tintin and help him recover, no matter how badly the assault might have affected him. Of course he knew his own limits: he was no psychiatrist, and would recognize when there was something he could not do. When they arrived back home in Belgium, he vowed to himself, he would make sure Tintin found a competent doctor.

.

.

.

Tintin, too, had made up his mind. He just wanted to go home. This damned jungle was cutting his air off, making breathing difficult, for no physical reason. Every step he walked made him nervous. Every glance of a guerrilla soldier alarmed him. He was even afraid of falling asleep, for it meant giving up control.

He knew very well how irrational it all was, but could not resist the mechanisms of his mind and body. Only the familiar security of Marlinspike Hall, he was sure, would help him cope.

Until then, he would stay with the Captain whose presence was reassuring, and do his best to appear strong.

- the end


End file.
